


of their fair city

by 75hearts



Category: Paris Burning (thecitysmith), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, but like.... you've read the silmarillion you know what happens to alqualonde and nargothrond, for those of you not familiar w paris burning: this is an au where cities are personified, idk how to tag for stuff???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 12:03:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: a series of extremely short pieces about the various Cities of Arda.





	1. alqualondë

**Author's Note:**

> this is technically not cityverse-canon-compliant. this is because Cities are born from death and elves are immortal but I wanted them to have Cities anyway. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> vaguely based on [this ask](http://thecitysmith.tumblr.com/post/180240074866/hello-so-i-know-youve-had-mentions-of) i sent, because i just have a lot of feelings about this au okay.

Alqualondë was a happy girl. She delighted in everything: in splashing in the waves, playing the harp beneath the great arch, decorating her hair with the silver-and-pearls of her people, scattering jewels on the beaches, climbing the stone walls of her city. But most of all she delighted in the ships.

Cities can only leave their borders for so long, but it is not as though the swanships travelled to the far coast of Endóre; and so she joined her people on trips away from the harbor, laughing into the wind.

It was a century before she made a swanship of her own, carefully setting the eyes of jet, shaping the wood into the form of a swan. Her hands were guided gently at times, by a kindly elf man with silver hair; when he corrected her, they smiled at each other as though they were both in on some inside joke that no one else knew of. 

When it set out for the first time, Alqualondë nearly cried. Her face hurt from grinning. In the gentle light of the mingling the boat seemed almost to be glowing--the glinting golden beak reflecting Laurelin, the polished white wood shining bright with Telperion’s light. Around her, the sea sparkled and shone, shimmering as liquid light. 

And then she turned to look back, and her breath caught as she saw herself: rock and pearl, columns and curtains. “Oh,” she said softly, the wind rippling on her skin. 

When Laurelin’s light alone bathed Valinor, she began to sing, and joy poured out of her lips. On the shore, a baby fell asleep quietly and without fussing; a nightmare turned into an imagined adventure; an intricate necklace was cast perfectly, without air bubbles or missed areas; lovers held each other and smiled.

 

***

 

She knew little of politics. Ulmo she knew, and Uinen, but even when Melkor was pardoned she did not meet him. Of the discord of the Noldor she heard snippets, from the fights of Findaráto and Artanis, but paid it little mind; she focused her mind instead on her own people, and on their great arts, of silver and of ships. 

Her hair grew long. She was fair and joyful, and her people loved her as much as she loved them. Decades passed, then centuries, one after another.

 

***

 

Alqualondë had never seen death; her people were likewise innocent. They said Tirion still got jumpy at the mention of Míriel, but that was a distant place, a different language, a strange people. 

No, the City of the Lindar had never known death. Her people were immortal--why would she?

And so, when Fëanáro arrived, she was afraid, but she knew yet not of what.

 

***

 

Alqualondë was not present when Fëanáro’s host came in force; at first, in the darkness, she knew not why her people were screaming.

And then she felt it.

Alqualondë had never been in pain before, not truly. The small pricks, of unrest, of sorrow, of unrequited love and children falling out of trees or getting caught in turbulent waves--that much she knew. But this--this was not that.

In the darkness, alone and bleeding, Alqualondë’s scream rang through the air, high and clear.

 

***

 

When the ships burned, so did she. Not as much--just a little--but--she thought it was  _ over-- _

 

***

 

She was the only City in Valinor to be scarred. The only City in the Undying Lands who had felt her people die.

She spent her days on the beach, staring out at the water. It did not shine in the sun and moon as it had in the light of the Trees. Her people came back, one by one; she greeted them gently, but her smile was less easy to win. Mostly she watched the water. More than anything she wished that she could ride out on her boat.

She picked up the jewels that were scattered. Wondered how many of them Fëanáro had made.

 

***

 

She felt Artanis before she saw anything. Her child still, even after so many long Ages of the world. 

But the first thing she saw was not Artanis.

This is what she saw: eyes of jet black and beak of gold, white wood and half-raised wings.

For the first time in a very long time, Alqualondë smiled.

When Artanis landed, there were tears in her eyes. She looked very old. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Welcome home," Alqualondë said, and wrapped Artanis in an embrace.


	2. nargothrond

When she was born, she was called Nulukkizdîn, for her river and for her people. Glittering crystals lined the floor; sometimes of salt and sometimes of things more precious, and the most valuable they made into jewelry and draped around her in decoration. Their best fabrics were wrapped around her head and body, though she wore little of them, so as to show the black-ink patterns swirling on her skin. They ate well: fish and bugs and roots, roasted over shimmering flames, seasoned with the salt from the ground.

When the elves began to come, she wore more and more clothing, taking it off only when alone. She concealed carefully the bruises surrounding puckered scar tissue dotting unpredictably over her skin. Arrow wounds. There were more each day. The Elves explained later that they had not realized the Dwarves were people. Levain tad-dail, they had called them. Biped animals. 

She was close to dying when the elf Finrod appeared.

His hair was strange--a bright gold unlike any she had seen on Elf or Dwarf--and he was taller than even the other elves that Nulukkizdîn had seen. He had dwarves with him, but even they were taller than the ones she knew, speaking words that she could only half-understand, and they looked strangely at her when she told them her name.

She helped the last of her people leave, during the distraction; and the strange newcomers built new structures within her caves.  _ Nargothrond,  _ they said,  _ we will name the city Nargothrond _ ; and, alone, she allowed herself to weep a single time only for the loss of Nulukkizdîn, of the petty-dwarven woman that she had once been.

In the years that would come, visitors to Nargothrond looked around for the City. They had an image in their mind: of an Elf, tall and fair; perhaps with the golden hair of Finrod--now Felagund, though Nargothrond preferred to call him still Felakgundu, which he smiled at--or the dark hair that was common among the Noldor. They did not spare a second glance for the short Dwarf-man with the long beard and sprawling tattoos, assuming he was here as a laborer; at least not at first.

Rumors spread quickly among the residents of Nargothrond, of their City the petty-dwarf. That he would not talk to any who called him Tad-dail, even in jest. That he was never seen without his jewelry. They were proud of their city; but of their City they spoke only in whispers. Felagund alone spoke loudly of Nargothrond, and went around with him, giving him treasures from Tirion and teaching him Sindarin. Nargothrond did not bother to correct them when they spoke of  _ him _ ; for he was a City, and did not much care whether he was named man or woman; and to an Elf, all Dwarves appear to be men, and are called such.

Nargothrond loved his new people, in his own way, though it would be a lie to say he was not bitter. Felagund took him, once, to meet other Cities: Minas Tirith, and the Havens; and Tumunzahar, and Gabilgathol, and Khazad-dûm. Not Menegroth, nor any other Doriathin city. He was glad of that. He was not glad of the war, of the way his skin was covered in tiny, pale scars from the fights with orcs, of the way that weapons were made instead of fabrics; but there was nothing he could do about that except for try to win.

After the Man came--Beren--it seemed as though everything happened as quickly as though it were a dream. The leave of Felagund; the takeover, by Celegorm and Curufin; the kidnapping of Lúthien.

Nargothrond could not feel Lúthien’s sorrow; he could feel only his own people, and she did not call this place home. But it was apparent. His caves echoed with her quiet sobs. It was he that called Huan, and together in the dark of night they freed her.

He knew the news before it was announced; for he had felt the werewolf-teeth sink into his neck long before the messenger reached Nargothrond. “Finrod Felagund is dead.”

Nargothrond nodded as Orodreth took the crown and Celegorm and Curufin were exiled, but his eyes were clouded. He worked long hours alone at the forge, building weapons; for he was afraid that they would be needed, even more than they already were. The war had never gone well, exactly; but it had been getting worse, since the Nirnaeth.

Nargothrond sat at councils, sometimes. Enough to notice when Gwindor and the Man they called Mormegil, who called himself Agarwaen, started sitting at them as well. They disagreed, always. Gwindor was one of Nargothrond’s children, and the Man was not; but frequently the Man stared intently at Nargothrond, and something about him was intriguing.

‘You remind me intently of someone,’ the Man said to Nargothrond once, quietly, when they were alone. ‘I have seen other dwarves, in Doriath, but you don’t look like them. You look like him. There aren’t many Noegyth Nibin anymore. But even if there were, it’d be a strong resemblance, I think. Not that I know enough petty-dwarves to know.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Mîm.’

Nargothrond nodded. ‘I knew him, once. Is he--still alive?’

‘As far as I know.’ He shrugged, then paused. ‘He has a son, too. Ibun. Last I knew, they lived still in Amon Rûdh.’

‘Thank you.’ Nargothrond smiled. ‘You bring kinder tidings than you know, Agarwaen. I was feared that they were all dead.’

A half-laugh burst from the man, but it was mirthless. ‘You are not far wrong. And perhaps my tidings are not so kind as you think. I do not know if they live still; but I do know that while they did, they were the last two petty-dwarves to exist, far as I and they know. Apart from you.’

‘Yes,’ Nargothrond said, smile gone. ‘Apart from me.’

‘Well. I am sorry.’

Nargothrond nodded once more. Agarwaen left.

Agarwaen did not leave for good, however; he spoke frequently at councils, and soon became the chief counsellor of Orodreth. 

They built a bridge; Agarwaen wore dwarf-armor as he went to battle.

Five years passed, and two Elves came by, and demanded to speak only with Orodreth. Nargothrond himself was not invited to hear them speak; but he knew in his heart they had naught but dread tidings.

But months later, they went to battle against Morgoth himself; and Nargothrond bid them go with a smile, but fear lived in his heart.

It was not long after they had left that the fire started. Nargothrond could feel the suffering of every person who called his city home; and there was much suffering, and terrible. Tattoos moved and shifted on his skin in black panic. The dragon-fire started then in earnest; it burnt through his body to the bone, skin melting, sloughing off as the orcs watched and laughed. He screamed, and fell to the floor writhing in pain. The orcs did not stop; they came and came, seemingly endless, and slew or burnt or took as slaves all his people. And for the second time, Nargothrond watched his people die.

This time, he died with them.

 

***

 

It was not yet a week when Mîm arrived to the caves, greeted by the charred corpse of the City he had been born to. He sat there, in the ruined hallways, and it was his for a time, as no one else was there to claim it; but though he could claim the caves, the city was gone forever.

Húrin Thalion came not long after, and slayed him, and the last of the petty-dwarves fell dead. It is said that his dying words spoke of Nulukkizdîn.


End file.
